Hero's Footsteps
by Penthesilea
Summary: Sydney Carton's on his way to the guillotine when he is saved by a charismatic Englishman. Alternate ending to A Tale of Two Cities, crossover with The Scarlet Pimpernel.


Hero's Footsteps  
  
The tumbrils clattered through the streets in their grim funeral procession from La Force to La Guillotine. Fifty-two for Sainte Guillotine today, including that most hateful of personages, the descendant of the most detested family in France, the last Marquis St. Evremonde.  
La Vengeance waited for the tumbrils to arrive, looking about her as she waited for her leader and sister-in-arms, Therese Defarge. She shrieked in agitation, looking for the deepest enemy of the Evremondes. However, Mme. Defarge would never come. She had fought an Englishwoman for the right to capture the wife and daughter of the Marquis, and had lost her life. Her body lay concealed where it had fallen, locked in the rooms so recently vacated by the wife and daughter. The key now sank unknown in the waters of the Seine, while that fiery Englishwoman who had defended the last of the Evremondes fled Paris, wounded in her body with a loss of hearing.  
However, the last Marquis was not waiting for his death in the tumbrils, but lay unconscious beside his wife in a coach making way to Calais, and then on to their adopted home in England. Instead, a man who looked so like the Marquis as to make them twins stood with his arms bound, rocking in the tumbril as he was driven to his death. Beside him stood a young woman of no more than twenty, holding his hand for comfort.  
This man was named Sydney Carton. He was a lawyer in London, and had once defended the Marquis, known in England as Charles Darnay, at a trial for treason. His resemblance to Darnay had saved Darnay from execution in England, and now it saved the man again in France. He had drugged Darnay, exchanged their clothes, and had Darnay placed in the coach next to Lucie Darnay. He would sacrifice everything and die on the guillotine for the love of Darnay's wife. His death would spare her pain, and would fulfill his promise to her that he would die for one she loved.  
The woman next to him was a seamstress whose poverty and obscurity did not protect her from the bloodlust of the revolutionaries. She stood convicted of plots, even though she was faithful to the Republic. She would happily die for the Republic, and yet could not see how her death would benefit this glorious regime.  
The cobblestones of Paris were notorious for their ability to trip up anything that dared travel upon them. The fifty-two prisoners bound for Sainte Guillotine were jostled left and right, desperately trying to maintain their dignity and balance. Women with short hair clung to the sides of the tumbrils while the men attempted to remain upright without aid. All through the tottering, the seamstress kept her hand firmly held in Carton's.  
Suddenly, the jostling gave way to an enormous jolt. The tumbrils had stopped, and Carton could not see why. In his limited experience, he had never expected his journey to the guillotine to be paused or halted, and was therefore confused. His discomfort was increased when he saw that the seamstress had turned an unhealthy shade of white. He squeezed her hand, hoping the delay would be short. He could hear shouting in French from the soldiers that had accompanied the tumbrils, which informed him that a cart was blocking the street. He settled back against the side of the tumbril, not knowing whether to be concerned or relieved. He breathed deeply, knowing that every breath was another breath closer to the blade of La Guillotine. He tried to identify smells in the air, recognizing the faint odours of poverty and hunger that permeated Paris. He cast his mind to more pleasant smells, remembering a house in Soho Square, where wholesome cooking and women's perfume hung in the air like fine mists.  
He was rudely broken from his reverie by the seamstress, who tugged at his sleeve. He opened his eyes to see a young soldier of the Republic smiling at him over the side of the tumbril, a knife in his hand. Carton looked around, seeing that many of the escort were lying unconscious in the gutters, while nine or ten were opening the tumbrils, herding the prisoners away. The tall officer that had lead the tumbrils was now gallantly handing a Countess to the ground, with an elegance that suggested that she were stepping out of a carriage at a royal ball. Sydney suddenly felt the knife against his wrist, and jerked his arm away to find that the ropes binding him had been cut.  
"Right this way, Monsieur le Marquis, Mademoiselle," the young soldier said, gesturing toward the entrance to the tumbril. The confused seamstress gripped Sydney's hand even more tightly, obviously unsure whether it was safer to stay or go. Sydney, however, had none of her fear of the situation, since death lay on the certain path and possible safety lay on the other. He led her to the entrance, and jumped down so that he could hand her out of the cart. He pulled her out of the way so that the soldier could aid the other occupants.  
The tall soldier in front was now shouting instructions to his men in English. Sydney translated for his companion, explaining that the doomed fifty-two would be split up into smaller groups for safety. She gripped his hand, obviously unwilling to leave him, and he placed his free hand over hers in comfort.  
The young man that had cut Sydney free then guided Sydney and the seamstress over to the tall leader and introduced, in French, the "Marquis St. Evremonde" to "Le Mouron Rouge", or the Scarlet Pimpernel. The Pimpernel smiled engagingly and bowed to Sydney and the seamstress in a courtly manner that betrayed his aristocratic station.  
"I'm sorry, Monsieur. Will you introduce your charming companion?" he asked, as if he and Sydney were meeting at one of Sir Percival Blakeney's famous garden parties. Sydney stumbled for words, before admitting that he and his friend had not actually spoken their names to one another. "Ah, then. Mademoiselle, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. May I inquire as to your name?" The seamstress was taken aback at being spoken to so well, but stammered her name: Martine Vedarde. "Splendid, Mademoiselle Vedarde. Splendid. Well, Monsieur le Marquis, I am afraid that we must be getting off. I shall ask you and Mademoiselle Vedarde to accompany me back to a safe house, and then on to Calais. Would that be suitable, Monsieur?"  
"Quite," said Sydney, not sure whether to admit to the famous Pimpernel that he had not actually saved the head of the Marquis St. Evremonde, but an obscure lawyer from London.  
"Wonderful," said the Pimpernel.  
Within a few minutes, the fifty-two victims of La Guillotine were led away in ten groups in five different directions. Sydney and Martine followed the tall Pimpernel, accompanied by a Countess, a young farmer and an old merchant. They arrived at a house, where the Pimpernel seemed to own a set of lodgings.  
"I'm afraid we'll be a bit cramped in here, but it's only for one night. I'm sure we can all fit if we try. Madame la Comtesse and Mademoiselle Vedarde should be comfortable in the bedroom tonight, while we men can make do in the sitting room and dining room. Now, then, we shall have to stay here until tomorrow morning. The others will be doing the same throughout Paris, and I am sure we shall all be well," the Pimpernel assured them. The shocked silence that had blanketed the former prisoners finally broke as the Countess suddenly took the Pimpernel's hand and squeezed it emotionally.  
"Ah, Monsieur, we owe our lives to you and your brave men! You have given us hope, after so long alone. I thank you, Monsieur, with all my heart," she said, close to tears of joy. The Pimpernel kissed her hand, and murmured something to her that Sydney could not hear.  
Suddenly, he felt Martine shudder beside him. He looked over, to see tears running down her face. Uncomfortable, he placed an arm around her and took her into the dining room. There he held her as she wept, stroking her shorn hair and whispering comforting words to her. They remained that way for a long time, until her tears stopped. Then, they still stood there, neither saying a word, only enjoying the comfort of connection and contact. For a moment, she looked up into his face. Sydney, not knowing why, just knowing it was right, leaned down and kissed her lips. She returned the kiss, and then the moment was over. He took her hand, and they went back to the sitting room hand in hand.  
That night, Sydney and the Pimpernel set up camp in the dining room as Martine and the Countess slept in the bedroom, and the farmer and the merchant dozed fitfully on the couches in the sitting room. The Pimpernel watched Sydney closely, a small grin upon his face. Finally, Sydney broached the subject.  
"What is it?" he demanded.  
"Mademoiselle Vedarde. She seems...very attached to you." The Pimpernel's face betrayed nothing except a slight amusement at the whole thing, but his blue eyes seemed to penetrate Sydney's soul.  
"And I am quite attached to her. Is there something wrong?"  
"I was told that you married in England. A very handsome lady, by all accounts," the Pimpernel responded calmly. Sydney could have sworn out loud. Lucie! How could he have forgotten Lucie? Something must have shown on his face, for the Pimpernel raised an eyebrow. "Forgotten her in your excitement, Monsieur?"  
"Yes," said Sydney honestly.  
"Ah, well, I'm sure Mademoiselle Vedarde will understand when you explain it all to her," said the Pimpernel cheerfully.  
"It's not that - well, she - she knows," finished Sydney weakly. This charade was going on too long. He could not possibly be expected to play Charles Darnay until they reached England.  
"I see," said the Pimpernel, his expression never changing.  
"No, you don't," said Sydney, deciding to end this once and for all. "I'm not the Marquis St. Evremonde. My name is Sydney Carton. I'm a barrister in London. I work for a Mr. Stryver. I took Darnay's place thanks to a happy coincidence that I happen to look uncannily like him, and that I found a willing accomplice that only had to be persuaded a little. I meant to change places because I, well, I wanted to spare his wife the pain that his death would have caused. I'm sorry, but you do have the wrong man." The Pimpernel stared at Sydney for a moment, and then burst out laughing.  
"Switched victims! Of course! Now why didn't I think of that?" His laughter, slightly inane so as to be singular, rang through the small room, and then faded away. "Now, Mr, uh, Carton, was it? You do know that you should have died today on the guillotine?"  
"Yes."  
"You were prepared for that?"  
"Yes."  
"You meant to die simply to spare this woman pain?"  
"Yes."  
The Pimpernel whistled between his teeth and looked at Sydney with new respect.  
"Why the devil did she marry the demmed Marquis when you were willing to do that for her?" he asked bluntly. Sydney opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He had plenty of answers, none of them that would shake the question from his head. "You don't have to answer that, Mr. Carton," said the Pimpernel kindly. He grinned again. "And I assume that Mademoiselle Vedarde knows of this cunning plan?" Sydney nodded.  
"She knew when she looked me in the face in the prison," he said simply.  
"I'm sure she was as impressed as I am now," returned the Pimpernel. "Well, now. I see why she is so attached to you." Sydney blushed. "Ah, Mr. Carton, I see that the feelings are not unrequited. There may be hope for you yet, you know. Mrs. Darnay seems to be losing the battle for your heart. Poor lady." Sydney actually laughed at that, revelling in the release of tension it brought. The Pimpernel smiled, but did not join in. "Mr. Carton, I am afraid that we must try to get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow will not be easy. Good night, Mr. Carton."  
With that, he lay back on the chairs he had arranged for himself and fell asleep. Sydney had a little more trouble, and opted for sleeping slumped on the table, as he had fallen asleep so many times before. As he sat with his head on his arms, he wondered how he could have forgotten Lucie so easily, even as he prepared to die for her. An image of a young woman sprang to mind, and he fell asleep with a tiny smile on his face.  
Dawn broke through the curtains too soon for the two men. Sydney heard the Pimpernel groan as they awoke, tired and aching from the uncomfortable positions they had taken during unconsciousness. A hasty breakfast was presented to the others, and then the Pimpernel produced an assortment of clothing in which the fugitives dressed themselves. He disappeared for a few minutes, and returned dressed as an farmer driving a battered cart. The passengers seated themselves in the cart, all dressed as a peasant family. As the neared the gates, the Pimpernel explained to the guard that they were returning to their own town, just outside Paris, after being disappointed with the failure of the Marquis St. Evremonde to arrive at his own execution. When the guard asked who the passengers were, the Pimpernel explained that the old merchant was his father, the Countess was his wife, the farmer and Martine were his younger siblings, and Sydney was Martine's husband. He handed over papers, and was cleared.  
As they passed through the gates, Sydney felt a pressure released on his hand. He realized that Martine had held his hand clenched in hers as the guard questioned the Pimpernel. She was looking back to watch the walls of Paris disappear behind her, when she gasped and turned white. Sydney turned back as the carthorses were whipped into a gallop.  
They were being followed.  
A group of five or six soldiers were running down the road after them, shouting in French at the guard. He heard expressive language being used on both sides, which quickly disappeared as the soldiers left the guard behind in their pursuit. They quickly disappeared from view as the cart turned a corner. He could still hear them, however, and the cart kept going. Suddenly, the Pimpernel steered the cart into a narrow lane that shielded them from view and stopped.  
The passengers held their collective breath. The farmer and the Countess seemed on the verge of shouting at the Pimpernel for stopping, but he waved them to silence. The far-off sounds of running pounded their way into the fugitives' ears, as the soldiers approached. The running slowed to a walk only a few feet from the entrance to the lane, and Sydney prayed that the soldiers had given up. However, his prayer was not answered, and he saw the soldiers turn the corner and approach the cart. He looked to the Pimpernel for guidance, and almost yelled in surprise when he saw that the Pimpernel was waving to the soldiers.  
"Took you long enough!" he shouted in English.  
"Sorry!" was the only reply, as the lead soldier was obviously trying to catch his breath. He drew level with the cart, and Sydney recognized him as the young man that had cut his bonds the previous day.  
"Ffoulkes!" cried the Pimpernel. The two men shook hands warmly, the younger man still short of breath.  
"Any room for us?" he managed to gasp.  
"Room for everyone," replied the Pimpernel, grinning. The young man jumped up, as the six people clad in uniforms climbed into the back of the cart. Sydney looked at the new occupants as the cart turned and headed back for the road. There was one woman among them, although the leader, Ffoulkes, he assumed, had disguised her gender so well that Sydney would never have known if he had not expected something like that. A thought nagged at the back of his mind, but he ignored it, instead concentrating on Martine's hand in his.  
They travelled all day, sometimes eating the food the Pimpernel had stored in the cart, but never stopping. When night fell, they had reached a farmhouse whose owners had welcomed them into their home. They addressed the Pimpernel as "Monsieur Lacourt," but knew none of the other visitors. Sydney watched the Pimpernel and Ffoulkes help the ladies down from the cart as the thought that he had ignored suddenly struck him.  
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes! The closest friend and confidant of Sir Percy Blakeney, who himself was a favourite of the Prince of Wales. Sir Percy's wife, Lady Marguerite, was the queen of London society, while he himself was a leader of fashion. What was his closest friend doing rescuing doomed French Royalists?  
During the night, the Pimpernel and Sir Andrew sat up by the fire, discussing their plan to save the fifty-two. Sydney overheard fragments of their whispered conversation.  
"...but Wallescourt can't be left alone in Paris..."  
"...we still need at least eight trips..."  
"...you don't need to go back..."  
"...Stowmarries is waiting..."  
"...that leaves five..."  
"...Chauvelin will never know..."  
Sydney tried to put the pieces together, but his tired mind refused to operate. He contented himself by identifying the names that the Pimpernel and Sir Andrew discussed: he knew of Sir Jeremiah Wallescourt and Lord Stowmarries, and of Armand Chauvelin, a prominent Republican in Paris. However, he drifted off to sleep before he could connect the names in any meaningful way.  
The next day brought a hurried goodbye to the owners of the farmhouse, and a short journey in the cart to an apparently abandoned shack. Inside were changes of clothes for the fugitives and their two protectors. The Pimpernel disappeared with Sir Andrew once they had changed to the dress of modest gentlemen. They returned driving two carriages, not ornate, but functional, which were then loaded with passengers. The rest of the day brought them to Calais.  
Sydney's heart leapt as they entered the port-town. He had come through Calais when he had discovered that Lucie and her father had followed Darnay to Paris. For him, Calais was as good as England. It had hope, and the promise of a new life. He squeezed Martine's hand as he pointed out interesting landmarks to her. She smiled, and listend intently, having never been outside of Paris.  
The carriages parted company in the town, as Sir Andrew drove his carriage toward the docks. The Pimpernel took Sydney's carriage outside of Calais, and stopped by a beach. Sydney looked out, allowing himself to believe he could even see Dover from here as the sun began to set. Even if he could not see his own land, he could see a small ship out on the water, and a boat on the shore. The Pimpernel opened the door, handing out the ladies as the men jumped out. He led them all down to the boat, where he apologized that the boat could only take three passengers. The men agreed that "the Marquis" and the ladies should reach the safety of the schooner, which the Pimpernel called the Daydream. Sydney, Martine and the Countess stepped into the boat, and were soon aboard the schooner. Once the Pimpernel and the others were aboard, it was only a short trip to Dover, and home. The voyage took only a few hours, which Sydney would have gladly relived a thousand times. He and Martine stood together on the deck, hands intertwined, as they looked toward the freedom of England.  
They were taken to an inn in Dover, where they met Sir Andrew and his party, who had taken the packet from Calais. However, the Pimpernel remained on the Daydream. Sir Andrew stayed with them at the inn, and promised lodgings in London to anyone that needed them. Martine agreed, after Sydney confirmed that he had a place to stay in London.  
The trip to London was less than eventful, which suited Sydney and Martine well. Upon their arrival in London, Sydney was sure to ask where Martine was staying, and whether he could visit her. The answer was a happy yes, which also extracted a promise to visit the next day.  
In less than a week, Sydney had abandoned his place as C. J. Stryver's jackal. He set up his own practice, and was surprised when his first client was Sir Philip Glynde, in an insignificant, but very well- paying, dispute over property. Sydney was also surprised to see none other than Sir Percy Blakeney in the courtroom, probably supporting his friend in the trying business of land ownership. The strangest of all was when Sir Percy laughed once the verdict was delivered in Sir Philip's favour. His laugh was rather inane, and very familiar to the lawyer that had heard one very like it in those lodgings in Paris. Sydney stared at Sir Percy, wondering if the famous fop could really be the dashing and devious adventurer he had met in France.  
However, the internal debate over the Pimpernel's identity was soon quashed by Sydney's marriage to Martine, as well as the flood of activity that was spawned by Sydney's new prominence as Sir Philip's advocate. Even Sir Andrew would appear in Sydney's office, with a question about legal procedure and regulations. Sydney and Martine found themselves able to afford much more comfortable lodgings, as well as the children their union brought forth.  
However, the happiest moment for Sydney Carton was after many years of continued friendship with Charles and Lucie Darnay, when their son Sydney became a lawyer, and partner to Sydney Carton.  
  
Author's Notes:  
First of all, a bit of self-preservation: I haven't read all the Scarlet Pimpernel books. So if I made a few mistakes, please don't blame me, and just ignore them. So, why did I save Sydney in the end? I really like the way A Tale of Two Cities ends, but while I was reading it, I kept comparing it to the Scarlet Pimpernel, and then I decided to have Percy save poor depressed Sydney. Just a note on the title: it's a reference to the last chapter title in A Tale of Two Cities, Footsteps Die Out For Ever, and the motif of footsteps in the novel.  
  
Disclaimer: A Tale of Two Cities is by Charles Dickens. The Scarlet Pimpernel and all its sequels are by the Baroness Orczy.  
  
Please review. :) 


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